How can one not appreciate a good shag carpet?

Our arrival in the San Fernando Valley was unheralded, and yet still deeply gratifying after a brash decision to let the fifteen-year old boy drive most of the way from our home in Oregon.  Stef really did quite well, I'm proud to say, with the exception of a pesky habit for making abrupt unsignaled lane changes in front of California Highway Patrol officers.  In the end, I was also thankful that he used some tact by not resorting to, "Do you know who my Dad is?"  Diplomatic immunity only goes so far in the family tree, I'm afraid, and I'm also pretty sure that the officer didn't know who I was.

Once again, we found ourselves ensconsed in the hospitality of the Holiday Inn of Woodland Hills.  Whereas the San Fernando Valley often gets a bad rap, largely due to unfortunate stereotypes that are often undeserved, there are still plenty of perfectly acceptable communities both east and west in the great basin.  Woodland Hills is just one of those places.

The most endearing point to be made about the Valley and Woodland Hills in particular?  They still value a good fondue party.  And shag carpet.

Now for those of you familiar with my previous missives from Los Angeles,  you'll either be disappointed or downright elated with my inability to really delve into the texture of the city on this particular trip.  It's a short stay this time, and I'm also on a very short leash.

It seems that I have been placed on some sort of probation by the boy and his mother in which I've been restricted to visiting just one gravesite and one location of scandal and/or murder.

I'll do my best for you, but it may not stand up to some of my previous product.  Hey, I'm just saying . . .

The first day was relatively tame, punctuated only by a decision to take in downtown Los Angeles and the seasonal outdoor ice skating rink that is constructed each holiday season in Pershing Square.  It's really a neat concept when one considers that ice and the subtropical California climate don't really go together.

Sadly, the sheet was small, crowded, and melting.  Although Stef and I had both brought our hockey skates, we decided that there really wasn't any real potential for creating sustainable holiday memories without suffering some sort of mishap on the 50 by 90 foot sheet of ice.  In surveying the fifty or so people hugging the makeshift boards of the rink, it was apparent that Angelenos don't get a lot of ice time and I couldn't help but smirk in my superiority.

Our visit in the downtown area was brief and unremarkable, save the fact that I had the fortitude to turn down free tickets to a taping of "The View."  Dont' get me wrong; I like trainwrecks as much as the next person.  It's just that one has to draw the line somewhere.  My line just happens to be near anything associated or formerly associated with Rosie O'Donnell.  In fairness, I've also got a personal embargo on anything related to The Donald.

The guy offering the free show tickets also proferred a complimentary High Colonic for the entire family.  Out of ignorance, I again chose to pass, but only because I don't even know what they would put in such a concoction.

And that, kids, is the extent of our first day in sunny southern California.

And since we need to get an early start in order to make it to the 8:00 a.m. kickoff of the Rose Parade, we've decided to forego any midnight celebration in favor of sleep.  Has my life become this pathetic, or what?

After all, the trip is really about seeing the Rose Parade and I wouldn't want to ruin it with a lack of sleep.  Whereas I was subjected as a boy to countless holidays with my parents and grandparents tippling cocktails into the wee hours, thus robbing me of any possibility of going to the Rose Parade, I won't do the same to my own son.  I've vowed to tipple only until 10:00 p.m.

Here's a rare pic of me with my grandparents.  New Year's Eve 1967.  I'm the one in the center.

Tomorrow I check another item off that damned list.